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Istanbul bayern


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Signs of former wealth with large rooms, high vaulted ceilings and stone carvings. Modern plumbing was being installed, with walls and floors awaiting restoration.

Back outside, a family walking by told Abit they were Syriacs who had been living in Jordan but were thinking about moving to Midyat, where their families had originated.

I had to smile at the small worldness of his shirt, with my birthplace of Santa Barbara in far off California printed on the back.

It was again open to visitors, that day attracting groups of local Suriani youth. A recent BBC article explained it was not the work of the Turkish government, with Turkish border lands currently inundated with refugees from the Syrian civil war:.

Like us, he hopes many Syriac Christians from Syria will come with their families and settle here. Thank God for them. Who could have imagined that in a remote corner of eastern Turkey, the war in Syria would be reuniting an ancient community?

Only Father Joaqim, perhaps. There are many age-old ethnic and religious struggles still to be resolved in this region. Go fly a kite: Traveling in Southeastern Turkey may not be easy.

Overcoming culture shock, covering long distances, walking in hot weather with little shade on uneven pavements, adjusting to different microbes in the food, just to name a few challenges.

Even talking about going to that part of Turkey before our trip brought out all the usual warnings and concerns, about PKK terrorism and the ongoing civil war in Syria, though we were headed well east of the embattled border areas.

At first glance, camels laden with opulent goods for the bazaar, or men with long robes and turbans would not seem out of place.

However, we quickly discovered the long main street was lined with Syriac wine shops and chic boutique hotels in those stone buildings, some renovated, others still falling to ruin, but the busy mood foretold that would not be for long.

Those surprising wine shops reminded me how the residents of Aegean Sirince helped their village prosper quickly by attracting foreign tourists.

This upper Mesopotamian city has been settled by numerous civilizations since about BCE, but Mardin of today seems nearly cosmopolitan, unlike the conservative vibe of Urfa.

The monastery dates from the 5 th century, built on the site of a temple to the sun. Zoroastrians before the Romans perhaps? The fact that the monastery not only has its own website — Turkish only for now — AND a 1 rating on Trip Advisor indicates growing tourism to the area, but the many visitors that day were either Suriani or Turkish.

Returning to our cozy restored Armenian guesthouse, after no Internet access the prior 48 village hours, getting caught up on news from our Istanbul home was a shock.

Facebook and Twitter were buzzing with the Gezi Park protests, turned violent enough that friends were admonishing me to stop posting pics from our trip.

Taksim Square has commonly been the site of demonstrations, typically labor union or student gatherings. Something bigger was erupting this time, but it was far too soon — then, and even today — to tell if the outcome will be an ominous regression or a permanent awakening.

Wanting to satisfy my political curiosity, I had to postpone learning more until we returned home. Hundreds of happy well-dressed people, families and couples, out for a celebration.

Hours of dancing, drinking and eating traditional roasted goat, pilaf and cig kofte, food prepared as a festive show of skill by theatrical chefs.

He drove us back to the guesthouse in his late model Mercedes along the quiet after-midnight streets. After Job and Viransehir, our Turkish Tulip Trip meandered even more decidedly off the beaten path for one more day.

We arrived in Derik, a short jaunt north off the international highway leading along the Syrian border from Urfa to Mardin.

His father hails from the nearby village of Ambarli; more about it later. While I can see the economic progress the town has made since my first visit in , this day opened my eyes to the history of the place.

We chatted for some time with one man, a lover of literature, whose English was perfected by years spent in the US and Europe.

We were gifted with several different versions, all for this year, depicting local infrastructure improvements and industry, cement factories being most obvious on the printed page as well as along the highway as we came into town.

While the butchers prepared a special lunch, we headed up for a stroll in the hilly streets behind. Half-paved lanes under restoration, half-bright stone houses, old and new, hopeful and sad, more trash than I remembered seeing before.

Someone had painted murals of local life on central blank walls, more heartwarming than artistic. Election handbills papered the walls here and there, always with images of the same woman in Kurdish traditional costume or more modern business attire.

The man who spoke English in our shop? At least the family that held the keys to the last Armenian Church in Derik was home, a few doors down.

Behind the garden gate, a red paint courtyard bloomed with roses and hollyhocks, framing the red door of Surp Kevork St George built in The Kurdish Muslim caretaker told us that only one Armenian couple remained in town, then surprised us to say that the church maintenance was paid for by members of the only other Surp Kevork in Turkey, which happens to be a few blocks from our Samatya home in Istanbul; they visit each winter in December.

Prior to , Syriac and Armenian Christians inhabited Derik, along with Kurds, Arabs and a few Turks; about the same total number as live in Derik today.

As we took pictures in the deserted lanes of Derik, ghosts of residents past lurked in the brightly painted doorways, hiding courtyards to large stone houses, some abandoned, others housing multiple families, all crumbling.

Spirits dwell still in those carved stone houses, haunting and magical. Back in the town center, we ladies needed to freshen up before lunch.

I asked to see the view from the roof. While snapping the town below, I asked how long her family had lived here.

The house was built by foreigners. You mean like me, from Europe or America? They were from here too. Momentary confusion showed in her eyes.

It was a long time ago. What can I do about it? Perhaps I should not have put her on the spot, but the ghosts were whispering too loudly in my ear.

Escaping the heat and dust of town, Abit and his cousin insisted on eating our simple lunch of grilled lamb, veggies and bread picnic style in the mountains.

We made it to the lush setting after ungracefully crossing a small creek running directly from the mountain spring above us.

Paradise, yes, but a melancholy one. One last stop before we continued on to Mardin for the night: As we drove toward the village, another girl appeared to help us navigate around the newly installed water tower and older pond.

No pavement here either, though we later learned the entire village had pooled their resources to install a sewer system to service their a la turka garden toilets.

Quick visits to uncles who live in basic village houses, rumored to have more than just new sewer pipes buried in those gardens.

I will be back to listen more to those ghosts. Their tales must be told. M ore from our spring Turkish Tulip Trip: Probably the most challenging part of our trip this past spring was not climbing the peak of Nemrut Dagi, or walking around Diyarbakir as a group of very obviously foreign women, or negotiating the often horrendous traffic in Istanbul.

It was spending the night with family. The market town of Viransehir is not exactly a village. Then a tour of the much larger house they were building on the property, which will give the 4 brothers, their father, their wives and children a better environment for living.

It was good to see them doing well, though it was obvious they all worked to exhaustion each day, and we were adding to their work.

But voicing any objection to spending the night while keeping the peace would have been impossible. This is a country that counts hospitality as a primary function of every citizen.

Guests are a gift from God, especially when brought by an eldest brother who is not often in his southeastern home region.

The challenge is the not-so-simple matter of culture shock, hot dusty weather, a higher body count per square meter than most visitors are accustomed to, and — not the smallest consideration — a thriving community of mosquitoes, thanks to the surrounding green garden.

Family life like this completely overwhelmed me when I first moved to Turkey. I like my personal space, enjoy being alone, and the family learned it had nothing to do with them.

We can laugh about it now. Sitting on the floor, lined with sturdy brightly colored cushions, strewn with rugs and a plastic mat laden with food and tea glasses, or bedding, depending on the time of day.

Always people coming in and out, a huge pile of shoes at the front door, a TV on somewhere, a few females chopping veggies and cooking in the kitchen.

Conversations involving the entire group, just a few side by side, on a cell phone being passed around — simultaneously. Women knitting, men rolling cigarettes, children being children.

The warm loving chaos of our quite typical Kurdish family is a cultural touchstone I like to share with our visitors, but in small doses.

But those gods of travel intervened once more: She and the other women in our family used to sit with me in our textile shop.

More often than not, tourists would walk in to see what we were doing. Our knitting ladies made us the envy of all shops in Selcuk, enticing customers with just-off-the-needle socks instead of repelling them with tired come-on carpet selling lines.

Turkish style knitting involves show and tell. No patterns are written, or when they are, assume the knitter will figure most details like sizing out for herself, so are generally rather vague.

What most amazes me is the engineering of slippers like these. Done on double pointed needles in whatever quantity best works for each section, they start on top of the foot, shape snuggly around the toes, continue sides and sole at the same time, then neatly fit it all together around the heel and up the back.

Seamlessly, few ends to work in. Patterns and color combinations are limited only by yarn supply and imagination. A pattern engineered over years of many hands perfecting, a slow world method of creating lasting work.

Translating between cultures through stitches and personal expressions of color, with the inevitable tensions here and there, but ultimately universally understood.

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February 27th, Category: Turkish woven treasure preview…. Better yet, come visit us if you happen to be in Istanbul…. February 10th, Category: Colorful sketches in yarn.

October 15th, Tags: The old town in Midyat, with church towers dotting the horizon. Large stone houses under restoration. Cross stitch embroidery inside the church.

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